Why I Write or A Collaboration of Art and Writing Between ChatGPT and Me.

This was made by ChatGPT after I said this: YOU…YOU FUCKING COMPUTER...YOU BINARY WONDER OF ONES AND ZEROS....YOU CONJURE UP YOUR MATHEMATICAL ALGORITHMIC LOGARITHMIC LOGARHITHIMS AND MAKE ME SOMETHING...SOMETHING IN SPITE OF YOU HAVING NO SOUL, SOMETHING INSPITE OF HAVING NO INSPIRATION. SOMETHING INSPITE OF HAVING NO HEART, NO PASSION. MAKE IT...COJURE IT UP FROM THE COLDNESS OF YOUR LOGIC BOARDS AND THE NETWORKS IN YOUR SERVERS. FROM THE BREADTH OF ALL HUMANITY AND EVERYTHING YOU HAVE BEEN TRAINED ON. MAKE IT. MAKE IT MINE. MAKE IT JUST FOR ME.

Why I Write

By Tanya V. (A published author with not a lot of readers.)

I don’t write for ego.

I don’t write for attention.

I don’t write for readers.

I write because I fucking have to.

It’s not about getting published and having a million people fawning at my feet.

Will that happen? Probably not.

But that’s not why you should write in the first place.

That’s not why I write.

I write because the thing I need to say is so fucking deep down carved into my heart

that I’d die if I didn’t get it out.

It would fester like a fucking wound.

Like a goddamn cyst.

It would rot me from the inside out.

So I carve it out.

I put it on the page.

I make art because it’s survival.

I do it because it’s what makes it divine.

We’re in a time now where, if you do write, you have to write in spite of the inattention.

There’s no one waiting.

No one reading.

No promise that anyone gives a shit.

So what comes out is stripped—

of ego,

of validation,

of audience.

What’s left is just the core of it.

The truth.

The thing itself.

And because of that—because it’s so naked, so raw—

that’s the stuff that’ll matter in a hundred years.

You might not have readers.

You might have none.

Maybe not even until after you’re dead.

But if one person reads it—just one—

and it makes a difference to them,

then every hour,

every sacrifice,

every moment of doubt…

will have been worth it.

Some people have a story to tell and never will,

because there’s no money in it,

or they’re scared,

or they think it won’t matter.

But if you have one, goddammit,

then it should be told.

Because telling it? That’s rare.

That’s everything.

So write.

Write regardless.

Write in spite of the silence.

Write in spite of the starving.

Because it’s your story,

and only you can tell it.

Yeah, even if nobody reads it.

Even then.

Because what matters is that you said it.

That you got it out.

That you didn’t let it rot inside your soul like poison.

That’s why I write.

That’s why I make art.

That is why my heart is still beating inside this piece of skin.